


Friday

by dissolvedingirl (imadra_blue)



Series: Psychosexual Developments [4]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Canon - TV, Character Study, Complete, Disturbing Themes, Domestic Fluff, Drama, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Resolved Sexual Tension, Riding, Romance, Season/Series 10, Sexual Identity, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/dissolvedingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long, difficult week for Hotch and Reid.  But Friday will come, and everything will change.</p><p>..</p><p>Completed Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta Reader:** Many, many thanks to [emotionalmorphine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalmorphine) for their generous advice. I wouldn't have made it this far without them.  
>  **Notes:** Takes place between throughout Season 10. You may consider this a slightly alternate canon, but only regarding Hotch and Reid's relationship. I write to music, so I made a soundtrack for this series. If you would like to listen to it, please go [here](http://8tracks.com/dissolvedingirl/psychosexual-developments-a-hotch-reid-fanmix).
> 
> Thanks to everyone that read this far. The series is now complete!

…

> _"Everybody's working for the weekend_  
>  _Everybody wants a new romance_  
>  _Everybody's going off the deep end_  
>  _Everybody needs a second chance, oh."_  
>  _– Loverboy, "Working for the Weekend"_

…

It was one of Spencer's bad nights. One thought crashed into another, connected by the barest of threads. JJ's eyes had seemed haunted by winter when they had examined Sarah Rhodes, who had literally died of cold. Maeve's hand had felt that cold when she lay inside her coffin. Spencer's hand ached at the memory. That had been the first time he had ever touched her. His eyes burned and something stuck in his throat, so he forced his thoughts away from Maeve. He focused on the recent memory of Hotch fistbumping him for correctly guessing the number of boats on Lake Mead. Then his thoughts shifted again, and all Spencer could think about was the kiss he and Hotch had shared in his apartment several months ago. The memory left Spencer on fire and shook him free of his racing thoughts.

Hotch, as predictable as symbolic logic, had acted like nothing had happened when Spencer had returned to work. Spencer had tried to forget it as well, but the taste of any coffee kept reminding him of their kiss. And he constantly drank coffee. He almost regretted backing off, and a part of him wondered how far Hotch would have gone if Spencer hadn't.

Now determined to clear his mind, Spencer stepped outside of his motel room for some fresh air. His neck ached from where he had been shot, though the injury had been healed for months. He rubbed at it as he gazed down at the parking lot. Boulder City was practically in Las Vegas's backyard. He had grown up with the same cold, dry January weather, but he had still forgotten his coat.

Familiar male voices drew Spencer towards the small terrace at the front of the hotel. Hotch and Rossi stood side-by-side, both in their long coats. Rossi held a bottle in a plain brown paper bag. Spencer leaned close to the wall, keeping out of sight. He should've felt guilty for eavesdropping, but that night he welcomed almost any distraction, even if mildly immoral.

"This is really shitty beer, Aaron," Rossi said.

Hotch chuckled. "There wasn't much choice. If you don't like my taste in beer, you're welcome to stop drinking it."

"Just because I hate it doesn't mean I have to stop drinking it. But I do have to express my hatred for dry towns."

"This isn't a dry town. There are just no liquor stores here. Something in the city charter, I think."

"Miserable fucking place, this entire state. Either too much liquor or not enough."

"You think so? Reid was born here."

There was a pause, and Spencer wondered what Hotch's expression looked like. But he didn't dare lean forward to find out.

"So how did the date go with that marketing girl from the jazz bar?" Rossi asked after a long moment. His tone seemed pointed. Spencer's blood ran cold.

Hotch sighed. "It went."

"That bad, huh?"

Hotch didn't say anything. Spencer heard aluminum crackle. His heart pounded in his mouth, and his stomach continued to churn.

"Why? She seemed nice. And she was gorgeous," Rossi said.

"She drank cosmos. So did my mother."

Rossi swore something in Italian. "Listen, I know how you feel about your mother, but that's a damn stupid reason to hold against a nice girl."

"Beth is gone. She was a nice girl, too. But she wasn't Hayley. None of them will ever be Hayley. And none of them will ever be what I want, Dave."

"And what is it that you want, Aaron?" Rossi's tone grew sharp. "Because you tell me one thing, but I'm not blind. You don't look at women twice. But you do keep looking at—"

"We're not having this conversation. Good night, Dave."

At that, Spencer ran towards his hotel room door as fast as he could until he realized Hotch would see him in the hall. So he stopped by the ice machine and stared at it, wishing he could teleport an ice bucket into his hand.

"Reid?" Hotch asked as he approached. His brows were drawn together, and the dim lighting cast deep shadows over his lined face.

"I forgot my ice bucket," Spencer said, then instantly regretted it. He couldn't be more obvious that he had been doing something suspicious if he had signed a confession.

The corners of Hotch's mouth turned down. His gaze bore into Spencer, heating him through. Spencer was sure that Hotch could see every small sin Spencer had ever committed. His neck started to throb, and Spencer rubbed at it, wondering if he should just confess to eavesdropping and get it over with.

But then Hotch moved next to Spencer and held a hand over the back of Spencer's neck. "May I?" he asked, in the same tone of voice one might ask for sugar in their coffee.

"Y-yes. If—if you want," Spencer stammered, heat flushing through his body. He had no need of a coat at that moment.

Hotch lowered his hand on Spencer's neck. His thumb slipped under Spencer's collar and brushed against Spencer's gunshot scar. He pressed down gently, surprisingly so, then rubbed up. A knot of pleasure-pain released, leaving Spencer flooded with endorphins. He gasped.

"Better?" Hotch asked, his eyes warm. Spencer didn't think it possible to feel the cold with Hotch looking at him like that.

But Spencer backed away, just as he had when they kissed. As Hotch's hand slid off his neck, he recalled why he had stepped back every time Hotch drew close. Setting aside all the issues of their job and of Hotch's personal life, Spencer was terrified of getting too close. He couldn't lose what he didn't have.

"I forgot my coat, too. I better go get that," Spencer said, his voice cracking twice.

Hotch stepped back. "Good idea. It's a cold night for eavesdropping." He stepped around Spencer and disappeared into his hotel room without another word.

Rossi approached Spencer down the motel hall. When he caught Spencer's eye, he slowly shook his head, as if in disbelief.

Spencer started speaking, information spilling out of him unbidden. "Boulder City was a federal company town for the workers building the Hoover Damn. That's why the city charter prohibits liquor stores and gambling. Hotch is right, though, it's not a dry town. That's why he could buy the beer." He bit his tongue to make himself stop.

Rossi looked sour as he moved in front of his door. "Oh, go get your damn coat." Before Spencer could respond, Rossi had disappeared inside, leaving Spencer alone.

Spencer finally realized how cold it was outside.

…

As Spencer headed towards the exit of the BAU office, his mind was on JJ, who had already disappeared into her old office to read the files he had left her on Tivon Askari. He didn't know if learning more about the man who had tortured her last year would bring her any peace, but it was all the help he could think to give her. Just as he once had, she had to find a way to deal with her post-traumatic stress disorder. He was so distracted by these thoughts that he nearly ran headlong into Hotch.

"Reid, I'd like to talk to you in my office," Hotch said, his brow furrowed. He headed up the stairs, their case file from Nevada in hand.

Swallowing hard, Spencer followed him. He tried to ignore the dark pit opening somewhere in his gut. He couldn't recall having done anything wrong during the case—not that this necessarily meant he hadn't. But ever since Hotch had passed Spencer's evaluations to Morgan, any disciplinary comments had been handled by him as well.

Hotch closed the door once Spencer stepped into the office. The privacy reminded Spencer of the sexual encounters they shared there over two years ago. Yet, Spencer doubted this had anything to do with that. Hotch had kept his distance since their kiss several months ago.

"What happened back in Nevada, Reid?" Hotch asked, his gaze practically boring holes into Spencer's soul. Spencer wondered if Hotch was asking about the eavesdropping, but then he realized Hotch probably didn't care. Of course Hotch had picked up on JJ's mental state and Reid's behavior since she confessed her troubles to him. Hotch picked up on everything.

"Well, as I stated in my report, the unsub was actually—"

"Not about the unsub. What's going on with you?"

"Me?"

"You've been distracted." Hotch studied him. "But you're not just preoccupied with yourself."

Spencer cleared his throat. JJ had asked him to keep her confession between them, and he would honor that request. He knew how important it was to keep things where others couldn't see.

"Is there something I should know?" Hotch asked.

It wasn't for Spencer to say if Hotch needed to know about JJ's PTSD. No doubt, Hotch would understand. He had dealt with his own after Foyet's attack. But perhaps he would understand too well. And in any case, it was JJ's business to tell. Spencer studied Hotch's shoes, noting the scuffmarks and dust clinging to them. As hard as Nevada seemed to have been on Hotch's footwear, Spencer had no doubt those shoes would be cleaned and polished by the next morning.

"You're not going to tell me, even if there is," Hotch finally said.

Spencer glanced up. He wasn't good at lying, at least not to Hotch, but he was good at deflecting. And deflection gave him the opportunity to finally confront what had been bothering him since he eavesdropped on Rossi and Hotch. "You didn't tell me that you broke up with Beth."

Hotch's eyes widened. Then he broke eye contact. "I didn't think it would make that much of a difference to you."

"How would you know? It's not like we ever talk about things like that."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hotch asked, glaring at the carpet.

Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag. "I just mean that you once wouldn't even kiss me because I'm a man. Then you finally did, but you hid that you broke up with your girlfriend and dated another woman." He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but he wasn't sure that he was entirely successful.

"It was one date, Reid. It didn't mean anything."

"That's just how you like it, right?" Spencer definitely couldn't keep the accusation out of his voice now. He found it near unbearable that as much as Hotch drew close to him, none of it seemed to matter. Frustration turned into words that spilled out of him. "You know, Hotch, if I were to build a profile on you with everything I know, I would profile a middle-aged homosexual who is so terrified of his own sexuality that he keeps men at arm's length while he searches for a woman who can magically make him straight." He turned to walk out of the office.

Hotch grabbed Spencer by the elbow and tossed the case file onto his coffee table with his free hand. "That was out of line," he ground out, eyes dark and alive.

"Maybe it was. But was it wrong?"

Though Hotch's gaze seemed every bit as intense as ever, he didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down furiously as he swallowed. His lower jaw trembled, ever so slightly. His fingers felt like steel vises on Spencer's elbow. "I loved Hayley. That was real." His voice broke, and he let Spencer go.

Spencer's mouth felt dry. "I believe you. Love isn't a sexual identity."

Hotch worked his jaw. "Just… let JJ know that she can talk to me whenever she needs."

Spencer's mouth worked, but no sound came out. He ducked his head and swallowed. He had promised to keep JJ's secret. Somehow, Hotch had figured it out. He didn't know if it was him or JJ who given it away.

"I know the signs, Reid," Hotch said, as if reading his mind. "And I know a thing or two about not letting things go. And if you're not talking, she must not want me to know. I understand that, too. But I'm here, if she needs me. Let her know that."

"I—I have to go," Spencer said. He headed to the door before he somehow clued Hotch into every secret he was ever asked to keep.

"And Reid?"

Spencer glanced back, gripping his messenger bag for dear life.

Hotch still didn't meet Spencer's gaze. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

Feeling oddly calm, Spencer marched out of the office. But by the time he reached the elevator, he was shaking and sweating.

He didn't sleep that night. Or the night after that.

…

It was already after nine o'clock, but Spencer wasn't done with his chess game. Playing with Rossi was only semi-satisfying. Rossi had his own style of playing. Spencer, however, wanted to play against Gideon. When he played himself, he was really playing against Gideon—or rather, his memory of Gideon. He had yet to perfect it, and he couldn't rest until he had. It was the only thing that distracted him from the emptiness left behind by Gideon's death.

Spencer headed to the break room to pour himself some coffee. The pot had been drained dry, so he started brewing a fresh pot. As he waited, the right side of his neck twinged. The gunshot wound still bothered him, even after all these months, especially if he left his head in one position too long. He sighed and started to rub it, half-wishing he could ask Hotch to work out the tension for him.

"Neck bothering you again?" Hotch asked, as if summoned.

Spencer jumped and spun around. He should've known Hotch was still there. After catching his breath, Spencer finally answered, "A little bit."

Hotch nodded once as he stepped past Spencer towards the coffee machine, his ever-standard FBI mug of coffee in hand. Apparently noticing the coffee was still brewing, Hotch side-glanced at Spencer. His normally crisp suit was a bit rumpled at the back—it had been a long day in the office for all of them.

Being alone with Hotch while not on a case left a cold knot in Spencer's belly. He deeply regretted his emotional outburst after Boulder City, but Hotch had continued acting as if everything was normal. Like he always did, no matter what happened or who died.

"You're here late," Hotch said. "But you finished your case report."

"I'm busy with a project."

Hotch glared at the coffee pot. "A chess project, I noticed."

"Is there a problem with that?"

"I don't know, Reid. Is there?"

After a long moment, Spencer replied, "You didn't say much after Gideon died. At least not to me." It rankled him that it had been Rossi, not Hotch, who offered to play chess in Gideon's stead. It rankled him that Hotch seemed impervious to everything that wounded Spencer. Spencer wanted to see him cry and bleed right then, to know he was really human.

Hotch sighed. "What was I supposed to say, Reid?"

"I don't know. You worked with him for years. You two were close—as close as you are to Rossi. Gideon was your mentor. He was—"

"He left. And the only note he left was for you."

Spencer swallowed. That was a cold, hard undeniable truth. He still remembered the letter he found. Just as he remembered seeing Gideon's body lying beneath a sheet in his cabin. The memories of both set his eyes stinging. Spencer could think about Maeve without feeling like he was going to fall into a void. He had learned to live without her. And he would learn to live without Gideon. But at that moment, the wound was still raw and bloody. He wondered if it was the same for Hotch.

"You're angry at him," Spencer said. "For leaving or dying?"

"I don't know if it's anger. But maybe something like it." Hotch poured himself a freshly brewed cup of coffee. "I don't expect you to understand."

"So you're angry at me?"

"No, I just—" Hotch rubbed his face. "It's complicated."

"Isn't everything?"

Hotch glanced at him, his eyes hooded. "Go on home, Reid. It's late."

"I have to finish my game first. Then I'll leave," Spencer said as he moved to pour his own coffee.

Expression dark as midnight, Hotch nodded and strode out. When Spencer returned to his desk, he found that one of his white pieces had moved. The white knight had checkmated Spencer's black king. Spencer had played as Gideon with the white pieces. The checkmate was something Spencer hadn't seen—one of those surprise moves that only Gideon could have made.

Spencer glanced up at Hotch's office. Until that moment, he hadn't realized that Hotch had ever played chess with Gideon.

…

On their last night in Liberty, Texas, Spencer woke to a knocking sound. He glanced around blearily, trying to identify the sound before his slow and tired brain could process it was coming from his hotel room door. When he answered the door, he found Hotch outside with an expression appropriate for funerals and firing people on TV.

"Please tell me nobody died," Spencer said. He rubbed at his neck, now aching from how he had jerked himself out of bed.

"Not that we're required to investigate, at least." Hotch glanced down. "May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."

"What time is it?"

"1 A.M."

"You want to talk at one o'clock in the morning?"

Hotch's eyebrow quirked. "So it would seem."

Sighing, Spencer held the door open so Hotch could enter the hotel room. He could smell a trace of alcohol as Hotch walked by. Scotch whiskey, no doubt. The same sort of alcoholic turpentine Rossi preferred. Spencer suspected that had everything to do with Hotch's sudden appearance in the middle of the night. Though it would look normal on anyone else, Hotch's unbuttoned shirt collar and loosened tie suggested he had consumed considerable amount of whiskey.

Once Hotch entered the room, he glanced about, his sharp gaze flicking over the slept-in bed, Spencer's open go-bag, the half-drunk glass of water on the bedside table, and the careless array of dirty clothing tossed about the floor. Spencer tied his robe tighter and snatched up his underwear from the floor.

"You wanted to talk?"

"I don't want there to be any bad feelings between us. I don't—" Hotch licked his lips. Spencer hadn't seen Hotch nervous since their sexual encounters, and even then, it wasn't like this. Hotch's slumped shoulders and constant swallowing suggested something other than sexual interest.

Spencer sat down at the small desk and waited.

"You were right," Hotch finally said, his gaze fixed on Spencer's bag.

When Hotch failed to elaborate, Spencer asked, "About what, specifically?"

Hotch swallowed and rubbed his face. The glare he gave the bag was so intent that Spencer half-expected it to go up in flames. "Your profile of me."

The lamp light on the desk quietly hummed. It would likely burn out soon. Spencer suspected Hotch wanted it to burn out right then. Then he could hide his face in the darkness. But Spencer wouldn't let him. He kept his gaze fixed on Hotch.

"If you think homophobia is a problem now, you should have seen how things used to be when I was a kid. I spent my late adolescence and early adulthood hopping from one man's bed to another, but I used to deny being… gay, even to the men I slept with." Hotch's gaze remained fixed on Spencer's go-bag. "And I still dated women. I thought I could make it go away if I tried harder. So I even married the girl I liked best in high school." His voice caught.

"Hayley," Spencer whispered.

The smile that slowly spread over Hotch's face was thin and joyless. "I did love her. But I failed her in almost way imaginable. The only thing I ever gave her that she really wanted was Jack."

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Spencer to breathe as pressure built inside his chest and made his eyes burn. Hotch was baring himself, and it hurt to look at him. It hurt to be near him.

Hotch swallowed and adjusted his tie. "My father couldn't beat it out of me. Foyet couldn't cut it out of me. I am what I am. But now I have Jack. My sexuality doesn't just ruin my life, but his. Setting aside the risks I would take with my job and my civil rights if I ever came out, it would ruin Jack's life. And he might hate me."

Spencer glanced down at his hands. "That's not true. Your son loves you. Nothing can change that. Unless you leave him."

Gun-calloused fingers drew Spencer's chin up. He found himself staring right into Hotch's eyes. They were dark and rimmed pink, heated by an emotion that Spencer couldn't name, but had once seen in Maeve's eyes.

"I'm a coward," Hotch whispered.

Spencer tried to answer, but the words stuck in his throat—the opposite of his usual problem. It was Hotch's confession, but Spencer felt as raw and vulnerable as Hotch should be. Before he could even think to form a response, Hotch slipped away towards the door.

"Thank you for telling me the truth," Spencer finally choked out.

Hotch paused, back still to Spencer. "You're welcome." His knuckles whitened around the door handle, and then he left without another word.

…

The nights still got a little cold in late March. Las Vegas, of course, was perfectly capable of being chilly in March, but D.C. was just a bit colder. But perhaps it felt colder because of Spencer's nerves. Dorian Loker was to meet him in less than thirty minutes at Ebenezers Coffeehouse. Spencer had decided to wander the nearby Union Station to kill time. He barely paid attention to any of its impressive architecture or the expensive shops. His stomach squirmed more and more with every step he took. He had already thought of a thousand ways he could sabotage any relationship with her, just as he had all his others.

"Hi, Dr. Reid!" came a piping voice.

Starting, Spencer turned around to find Hotch, who blinked at him in apparent surprise, frozen in place while buttoning his coat. Beside him was Jack, who was waving at Spencer. After a moment, Spencer awkwardly waved back. To his mortification, Jack bounded towards him. Hotch hurried after.

"We just had dinner," Jack said. "Why are you here? Wait." His smile evaporated. "Does Dad have to go into work now?"

"Um, no. I'm just walking around, killing time. I mean, not killing it. That's violent. Just wasting it. I mean—" Spencer sighed. "No, I'm not here for work."

Jack seemed visibly relieved. "Oh, good." Like his father, he seemed unfazed by Spencer's awkwardness. He also didn't blink much.

Hotch studied Spencer with his own blistering gaze, his hands shoved into the pockets of a light coat. Things had been quiet between them since his hotel room confession. Spencer accepted Hotch's heteronormative charade. He had no control over his feelings for Hotch, but he could control what he did with them. He just had to figure out _what_ he should do with them.

"So, would you like to come with us?" Jack asked, beaming. "We're going to walk around the station. Maybe you can show me another magic trick. Do you know how to cut people in half?"

"Jack," Hotch warned in a tone he usually used with Garcia when she flirted too long with Morgan.

"Actually, I do. But first, I'd need a chainsaw and a—"

"Reid," Hotch said in the exact same tone that he had just used with Jack.

Spencer smiled. "Don't worry. I mean for the magic trick."

"Oh." The smallest of smiles ghosted over Hotch's lips. "You're welcome to join us for the rest of the evening, if you like."

The offer practically made Spencer's heart vibrate inside his chest. He would spend the rest of his life hungering for every bit of attention Hotch spared him, just as he would always mourn the loss of Maeve and Gideon. He wasn't strong enough to turn his feelings off. He didn't want to turn them off. Even though nothing would ever come of it. In a way, he was just like Hotch and his insatiable, soul-destroying need to work. Spencer needed to feel things, or he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"We're going to get milkshakes. Do you like milkshakes? Do you want to come?" Jack asked.

"I—" Spencer cut himself off, suddenly remembering Dorian waiting for him at Ebenezers. And he also knew if he stayed, it would hurt even more to get a glimpse into Hotch's life. A life he would never share. "I love milkshakes, but I can't. I'm sorry."

Jack blinked. "Why not?"

"I—I'm meeting someone. For coffee. She's waiting."

The expression on Hotch's face looked remarkably like a man that had just been slapped. He tilted his chin up, gaze fixed on Spencer, then dipped his head, turning his attention back to his son. "He's busy, Jack."

"Oh. All right," Jack said, sounding disappointed. "I hope you have a nice time, Dr. Reid."

Hotch took Jack's hand. He considered Spencer for a moment, his gaze warm. "Enjoy your coffee, Reid."

"Thanks. See you at work." Spencer ducked his head and walked past them towards the nearest station exit.

"Milkshakes are better, though," Jack whispered as he passed.

By the time Spencer arrived at Ebenezers, he was ten minutes late. The coffeehouse was filled with people. Dorian sat at a small table in the corner with a too-large iPad, her hair neatly done, and her sweater as sparkly as Garcia's apartment. The smell of coffee and sandwiches filled Spencer's nose as he sat down across from her.

"Hey there," Dorian said, her smile as bright as her blue eyes, which made what Spencer needed to say all the more painful.

"I'm sorry, but this can't be romantic," Spencer blurted out, his thoughts falling out of his mouth faster than he could catch them. "I already have feelings for someone else, and as much as I try to shake them, I can't. I'm stuck with them. I don't want to mislead you. It wouldn't be fair to either of us, but especially not you. You deserve better."

"Okay," Dorian said, blinking. "I wouldn't have led the evening with that, but okay."

"Is it okay to just be friends?" Spencer asked, trying to force himself to breathe regularly. His palms felt sweaty, so he slid them along his pants. Dorian seemed to be taking this far better than he ever dreamed.

"Of course. Do I look like I'm wearing a fedora? I think the friendzone is a fine place to be."

Spencer blinked. "What is a friendzone and what does a fedora have to do with anything?"

"You don't know? There's something I can tell you, the guy who knows everything?" Dorian grinned. "You came to the right person."

Spencer leaned forward as she began to explain about nice guys who weren't so nice, relieved that he had at least made a new friend that night. Milkshakes were indeed better, but coffee was nice, too.

…

Spencer stood off to the side of the crime scene as the local police finished collecting evidence. Hotch sat at the end of the ambulance, talking with Rossi about Peter Lewis's attack on him. Though Lewis had already been taken away and Susannah Regan's corpse was on its way to the morgue, the ghost of Lewis's crime lingered.

Lewis had reveled over how they wouldn't know what had been done to Hotch's mind while drugged. That seemed to have spooked Hotch, and Hotch did not spook easy. Spencer had never seen him look so shaken. Hotch stared off at nothing as he spoke to Rossi. His blank expression suggested shock. None of the team would be going home that night until they made sure Hotch would be all right. 

After speaking to Rossi, Hotch's gaze shifted to Spencer. Though as intense as ever, his gaze seemed dark, almost frightening. Spencer had never seen Hotch look at him like that before. JJ seemed to notice Hotch's stare and turned to look at Spencer as well, frowning. Rossi patted Hotch on the shoulder and started for the rest of the team.

"Is Hotch all right?" JJ asked Rossi as she stepped closer to Spencer.

"Define 'all right'," Rossi quipped. His gaze raked Spencer from head to toe, as if measuring him for something.

Morgan approached. "The last time I saw him look like that was after I pulled him off Foyet's corpse."

Rossi kept his attention focused on Spencer. "No. He's not all right. Physically, he'll be fine, after we get him checked out at the hospital. But he's going to have to see a psychiatrist to sort out what happened to him. He had hallucinations under that drug cocktail. But he fought Lewis's attempt to make him shoot us. That's something."

JJ closed her eyes, and Morgan turned to the side. It was both their usual reaction to bad news. Spencer didn't know how he reacted, because he was too busy watching Hotch watch him.

"Hey." Rossi waved his hand in front of Spencer's eyes. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

Spencer studied Rossi. Exhaustion lined Rossi's eyes. He seemed a little grayer than he had before they arrived at the house. Rossi didn't have many close friends left. "All right," Spencer said, and followed Rossi out of earshot of the others.

While Rossi lacked Hotch's intensity, his gaze seemed to pierce more deeply. "Hotch saw one of his worst fears. And that was us being picked off one-by-one," Rossi said quietly. "JJ survived. Morgan was the last to go. I was second. But you were first. You died out of Hotch's reach, out of his sight."

Spencer swallowed, feeling as if the world had jerked to a stop beneath his feet. He understood the significance, but the implications were overwhelming. In most fear delusions, the first thing to happen was the most meaningful. But Spencer couldn't be the most meaningful thing in Hotch's life. "Are you sure the first wasn't you? Maybe he's confused. Maybe he just doesn't want to talk about Jack—"

"It was you, kid."

Not knowing what to say to that, Spencer fell silent. He glanced back at Hotch, who was still watching him intently. Spencer couldn't understand why he would have been the first to die—and to die like Hayley had. Hotch had never seemed to want anything that mattered from Spencer. He had put up firm walls around his life—walls that kept Spencer out.

"Go and talk to him," Rossi said. "I think it needs to be you that takes care of him tonight."

"Why me?"

Rossi lowered his gaze. "How can you be so smart and not see it? You're one of the most amazing profilers I ever met, but when it comes to Hotch, you're blind." He sighed. "Look, I get all the reasons that keep you two backing off. And I don't blame either of you. But he needs someone. Might as well be you. But only if you want it to be you."

Spencer hesitated for only a moment. "I'll go talk to him. No promises." He walked towards Hotch, leaving Rossi and the others to watch from a distance. Hotch watched him approach, his hot gaze the only sign of life on his face.

A slight shiver crawled down Spencer's spine as he considered the possibilities of what Lewis had done to Hotch. No one would know until it was too late. Spencer could think of twenty painful ways to die at Hotch's hands. But it didn't matter as Hotch continued to stare him down, almost transfixing him. 

"Are you all right?" Spencer asked, slipping his sweaty palms into his pockets. He already knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyways.

The blood on Hotch's face gleamed under the ambulance lights, his forehead wound raw and visible. He didn't blink. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest indicated life.

So Spencer curled his fingers around Hotch's right wrist. He could feel Hotch's pulse, a little slower than normal, under his fingertips. Hotch seemed to warm under his touch, and he finally blinked. His gaze softened as he searched Spencer's face. After a moment, he glanced down at Spencer's fingers on his wrist. Hotch's eyebrows furrowed, and his lips twitched.

"I'm alive," Hotch finally said, voice hollow as a tunnel.

"I asked if you were all right, not alive," Spencer whispered. He knew what it was like to be drugged by an unsub, to see things out of his control, to wish death on someone he cared about. But Hotch had understood when Tobias Hankel had demanded Spencer pick one of his teammates to die, and Spencer would understood what Lewis had done to Hotch. "But alive is a start."

Hotch's face crumpled for half of a second, as if he would break down in tears, but then the stone curtain fell over his expression. He swallowed hard. He smiled thinly, an expression as fake as one worn by a surviving victim during an interview. Spencer felt guilty for making the comparison.

"I don't know what's in my head right now," Hotch said.

"I know that feeling. But I think you're stronger than anything Peter Lewis did to you."

Hotch closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. When he looked back at Spencer, his expression seemed hollow. "I have to go to the hospital now. And I can't go home tonight. I don't… I can't." He covered his mouth with his hand.

Spencer hesitated. He didn't know if he was really what Hotch needed that night. But he did know the risks involved, and they did not daunt him. "I'll go with you to the hospital. And you can come home with me tonight. If you want."

The expression on Hotch's face was difficult to describe. Too many emotions to count lurked in the corners of his mouth, the hooding of his eyes, the furrow in his brows. So much of it showed if one understood how to read the lines on his face. Spencer couldn't claim to fully understand, but he was starting to. He saw fear, he saw hesitation, but most importantly, Spencer saw need in Hotch's face for the first time.

"I might not be safe," Hotch whispered.

"I trust you." Spencer slid his hands into his coat pockets. "Do you trust me?"

After a long moment spent studying Spencer, Hotch nodded.

…

The hospital released Hotch in the small hours of the morning. Even though his blood tests had come back normal and a psychiatrist had prescribed him medication, he seemed dubious. Spencer drove him back to his apartment in silence. Hotch stared out of the window while in the car, his hand fixed over his mouth. Something had left its mark in him, but as with everything else, he hid it from sight. Only the silhouette of trauma remained.

"You can take the bed," Spencer told Hotch when they entered his apartment. "I'll take the couch."

Hotch studied him for a moment, eyes swallowing the darkness in the room, then nodded. He said little as Spencer set them both up for the evening. Spencer left him alone on the bed, then curled up on the couch. Dawn came and went, but Spencer couldn't sleep. He got up to take a shower, hoping that hot water might help his insomnia.

The door to Spencer's bedroom was half-open. When Spencer glanced in, he saw Hotch sitting in the exact same position he had left him in. Still fully dressed, Hotch bent forward on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, hands folded before him. He didn't seem to blink.

Spencer pushed open the door and sat beside Hotch on the bed. Hotch didn't glance up or move, glaring down at the floor. Spencer was mildly surprised that his carpet hadn't been reduced to ash. The sunlight streamed through the slats in Spencer's blinds, revealing that Hotch had pulled the bandage off his forehead. The raw scrape glistened in the morning light.

"I know how you feel," Spencer said. "After Tobias Hankel… I didn't trust my own thoughts, either. I don't know if I ever have, really. I always worried I'd turn out like my mother. I took the dilaudid thinking it would make everything go away. It just made it worse."

Hotch didn't respond, but he did close his eyes.

"You shouldn't worry so much about what Lewis said or even did. He tried to make you kill us, but you didn't. You're not an impressionable child. You're a grown man with an iron will. You'll be fine, Hotch."

Hotch swallowed.

"You should sleep. Sleeping helps your mind recover, as well as your body."

"Depends on the dreams," Hotch said after a long moment.

Spencer hesitated for just a moment. "Would it help if I stayed with you?"

"You don't have to do that, Reid."

"No. I don't have to do any of this." Spencer studied Hotch's face in the weak sunlight peeking between the blinds. He searched for something, anything he needed to push forward. He found it in the slight grimace of Hotch's lips, the pupils of his eyes blown wide in the gloom, and the way he gazed at Spencer from beneath his lashes. Stomach fluttering, Spencer placed his hand over Hotch's. "But I want to. What do you want, Hotch?"

Hotch turned and looked at him. The slats of lights passed over his face, making his skin seem golden and his eyes darker than ever. Spencer returned the gaze, lost in Hotch's gaze, trying to understand what he was thinking. As much as he could piece together about Hotch, there was so much he didn't understand. Not yet.

"I… I want you," Hotch whispered. He looked down and slipped his hands around Spencer's. His hands felt cold, his gun callouses rough, Spencer warmed at the touch. "I always have. But I—all I have is excuses for my poor choices, and you deserve better than that.…" He trailed off into silence.

Spencer's mind blanked. He understood what Hotch meant even without him finishing his thought. A wave of warmth washed over him, trickling down his spine. He hadn't felt like this since Maeve told him that she loved him. He opened his mouth, but no words fell out.

"That was too much," Hotch said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I don't mean to obligate you." He stood up.

"I want to hear them."

Hotch paused, his back to Spencer. "What?"

"I want to hear the excuses."

Though he was silent and still long enough to make Spencer regret his words, Hotch eventually spoke. "I was… scared of you. I was… scared of what I felt. I thought I could purge it by making our encounters casual. I was wrong. It didn't work that way for me. And I don't think it did for you, either."

Without consciously thinking about it, Spencer grabbed Hotch's wrist. He leaned forward and pulled Hotch down for a kiss. Their lips brushed for a moment before Spencer deepened it. This was nothing like the fierce kiss they had shared the year before. This one was slow and languid, built on something more than lust. Hotch's fingers ran over his neck, brushing over his gunshot scar, leaving Spencer hungering for more. Emboldened, Spencer buried his fingers in Hotch's thick, coarse hair and slipped his tongue into Hotch's mouth. He was rewarded with a small moan.

As Hotch sucked on his tongue, thoughts filled Spencer's mind, too many to sort. All he knew was that something had changed. Something had shifted in Hotch. And maybe in Spencer, as well. He suddenly knew he mattered. He had always mattered.

When their kiss came to a natural end, Hotch rested his free hand on Spencer's head, his fingers winding through Spencer's hair. He said nothing when Spencer pulled him down onto the bed and lay down beside him. Hotch fell asleep within minutes of Spencer curling around him, his fingers still threaded in Spencer's hair. Spencer joined him in sleep soon enough, the faded scent of gunpowder filling his nostrils.

Spencer felt an odd sort of peace settle over him as he drifted off, head nestled in the crook of Hotch's neck. What had needed to be said had been said.

…

The next time that Spencer saw Hotch was Monday morning. Hotch had slipped out of Spencer's apartment on Saturday, while Spencer slept. He had left behind a note saying only, "See me on Monday."

But on Monday, they got a case. Spencer half-expected it. He knew to table the discussion without a word from Hotch. That had always been their tacit understanding. Spencer spent the next week focused on the case in Los Angeles and then on helping Kate find her abducted niece. The drama of it all nearly left Spencer exhausted. He knew he wouldn't be able to function if it had been his child. He hadn't even been able to function after Maeve. Coffee and anxiety kept him moving. By the time they saved Kate's niece, Spencer hadn't slept in three days.

On the next Monday, Spencer headed straight to Hotch's office. He knocked on the open door and stepped in. He wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his corduroys and waited for Hotch to look up.

He didn't have to wait long. Hotch glanced up immediately, his fingers still poised over his laptop keyboard.

"It's Monday again," Spencer said and stepped closer to the desk. His stomach churned a bit.

Hotch smiled for just a moment, a flash of something gentle and warm, but then set his face back into stone. But Spencer was getting better at reading him. He noticed when Hotch blinked now. He knew to look at Hotch's eyes. At the moment, he saw regret.

"I'm sorry, Reid, but we have a case today. But I think this one will be short." Hotch studied him. "I'm sure you already know how this will have to work."

"I know. Personal and professional are two separate things."

Hotch nodded, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on Spencer. "Are you doing anything Friday night?"

Spencer warmed. "No."

"On Friday, I was going to take Jack out to celebrate his grades. You're welcome to join us."

"You want me to have dinner with you and Jack?"

"I'm a package deal. Any relationship I have must also involve my son," Hotch said, his gaze clear and steady. He had apparently made some sort of peace with his feelings now. Spencer wondered if Peter Lewis had somehow unwittingly made Hotch stronger.

"I'd love to go," Spencer said without hesitation. His stomach had settled, and his palms were dry. Hotch's newfound resolve seemed to have strengthened him as well.

"Friday night, then. Pack your go-bag accordingly." Hotch returned his attention to his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keyboard.

Unable to hide his smile, Spencer slipped out of the office. He had never looked so forward to a Friday in his life.

…

It was late Friday night before Hotch was ready to leave. Rather than succumb to his first inclination to count the minutes, Spencer worked on case files at his desk while he waited. He became so wrapped up in the information that he didn't stop until a shadow fell over him.

"Ready?" Hotch asked. His eyes seemed warm, but Spencer couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination.

Spencer grabbed his bag and stood up so fast that he banged his knee on the desk. He winced. "Oh. Yes."

"Don't you want to turn off your computer, first?"

Face heating, Spencer sat back down to power off his computer. Hotch waited patiently and then led Spencer out to his car. He didn't seem to feel the need to fill the space between them with words, so Spencer remained quiet as well. He focused on the polished heel of Hotch's shoes and the way the back of his jacket flapped as he walked. Once in the car, Hotch opened his mouth as if to speak, but then fell closed it and turned back to driving. They hardly exchanged five words by the time they pulled up to Jennifer's house.

"I'll go get Jack," Hotch murmured and slipped out.

Spencer adjusted and readjusted his bag on his lap. He wondered if he should say something and what he should say. He wasn't sure how any of this was supposed to work. As he watched Hotch disappear inside the house, it occurred to him that Hotch might not know, either. His knuckles had seemed a bit white around the steering wheel. It occurred to Spencer that Hotch might never have known what to say or do—the same as him.

After a few moments, Hotch exited the house with Jack in tow. Jack shouldered his backpack as he waved goodbye at his aunt. He was the first to climb into the vehicle.

"Hello, Dr. Reid!"

Spencer glanced at Jack's beaming face. He wasn't expecting Jack to seem so pleased to see him. "Hello."

"Dad says you're coming to dinner with us?"

"Yes—Yes, I am."

"Great! I can show you a magic trick when we get to the restaurant."

Hotch climbed back into the driver's seat. "Absolutely no sawing anything in half, unless it's part of your dinner."

Spencer winced a bit, thinking instantly of their cannibal cases.

"That came out wrong," Hotch said with a sigh, apparently guessing what Spencer was thinking. Yet, a small smile drifted across his lips as he drove away.

…

Dinner went well. Jack showed Spencer his progress in making small items disappear from one hand and appear in the other. He accepted Spencer at the dinner table as easily as if Spencer had always been there. He didn't even bat an eye when Hotch asked if Spencer would like to spend the night. It was Spencer that blushed and stammered, his stomach fluttering at the thought. Jack nattered on about pancakes and video games.

By the time Hotch had put Jack to bed, Spencer finally adjusted to the realization he was in Hotch's house. He felt oddly calm, perhaps even serene. Pictures of plane airshows lined the hallways, dotted with pictures of people Spencer didn't recognize. Based on their fair hair and complexions, Spencer guessed them all to be relatives of Hayley. Not even a single picture of Sean could be found. The only family Hotch recognized was his dead ex-wife's. His own did not exist.

Hotch exited Jack's room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Spencer turned and studied him in the gloom. It was impossible to tell if it was the darkness or Hotch's normal inscrutability that made him so hard to read.

After a moment, Hotch spread his hands. "I don't know what to say at this part. Or rather, how to say it right."

"You don't have to say anything," Spencer whispered, feeling warmth spread across his chest.

Within two steps, Hotch closed the distance between himself and Spencer. He cupped his hands around Spencer's face and studied him, eyes dark in the gloom. "Good," he whispered and then kissed Spencer so hard that he took his breath away.

The sudden passion, the intensity of Hotch's kiss, his hands sliding down Spencer's neck, locked Spencer into the present moment. All he knew right then was Hotch, pushing him back towards the bedroom. For once, his mind silenced of intrusive thoughts. He wanted Hotch's hands all over him, and he got what he wanted. He didn't care when the buttons on his shirt popped, because it only meant Hotch's gun-calloused fingers were touching his bare skin that much faster. Hotch barely gave him time to catch his breath between kisses.

Spencer gave as good as he got. He yanked Hotch's jacket off seconds before Hotch pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him. As Hotch yanked off his own tie, Spencer unbuttoned Hotch's shirt. He ran his hands over Hotch's bare chest, amazed by the freedoms he had always been denied before. He didn't expect Hotch to have so much chest hair, but he liked it.

Hotch paused for just a moment, studying Spencer's face, his lips moist and his eyes dark. "This is what I've always wanted to say," he whispered, then leaned down again for another searing kiss.

…

Making love was nothing like having sex, not for Spencer. Sex had been a series of mechanical actions punctuated by unfulfilled wants and limited pleasures. But making love was something else entirely. There was freedom in Spencer's lips pressing to Hotch's throat. He tasted the salt of Hotch's sweat, felt Hotch's pulse throb under his kiss, but no sensation matched the feel of Hotch's hardened cock in his hands. Hotch felt thick and hot in Spencer's hand, and the intoxicated look on Hotch's face when touched was worth more than anything Spencer had ever possessed.

Hotch pressed down on Spencer's shoulders as he rode him. Spencer gripped Hotch's broad shoulders, thrusting his cock up inside Hotch. The feel of Hotch's uncut cock, the way those magnificent thighs tightened and tensed with every roll of a hip, had a rhythm that Spencer somehow understood without knowing, a rhythm built on heat and want. Spencer knew so many words, so many ways to describe things, but it was difficult to catalogue the experience. What he remembered was in pieces: the raw, primal feeling of being inside Hotch, his opening stretching taut around Spencer's cock, sweat dripping down his reddened face, mouth open with wordless sounds escaping. Crude, ugly words like "fucking" came to Spencer's mind, but they failed to capture the intimacy.

Spencer came first, senses blissing white as his balls tightened and body stiffened. The ferocity of it rocked him upright. Hotch rode it out, grunting, his arms tight around Spencer's shoulders. Spencer wanted to lie back, to wallow in his own orgasm, but that was too selfish. He tightened his grip on Hotch's cock and pulled, base to tip, over and over, until Hotch buried his face in the crook of Spencer's neck and came with a small keening noise.

They lay together in that sticky pose for some time before untangling. Hotch moved to lie on his side beside Spencer, propped up by one arm. He studied Spencer with that intent, solid gaze of his. Spencer ran a finger down the side of Hotch's face and smiled. If Hotch always looked at him like that, he didn't think it would be possible to ever feel cold again.

"I wish I knew what to say now," Hotch whispered.

"You've said enough. I understand the rest from context."

Hotch smiled, then lowered his gaze so his dark eyelashes splayed out across his cheeks. "You're making this too easy for me."

"Does it have to be difficult? I mean, it was difficult just… getting here."

"No. I suppose you have a point," Hotch said, and bent down to kiss him again.

…

Spencer woke up alone. The sheets still bore the rumpled imprint of Hotch, but Hotch was nowhere to be seen. He checked the bathroom, but he only saw the signs of their midnight shower. After straightening the towels and combs, Spencer walked back out into the bedroom with a frown.

Then he realized the bedroom door was open a crack and he could hear voices down the hall. The smell of coffee and pancakes filled his nose. Rubbing his aching neck, Spencer followed them until he found the kitchen. Jack sat at the breakfast bar, his legs swinging. Hotch stood by the stove, sliding freshly made pancakes onto plates.

"Good morning, Dr. Reid," Jack said, beaming. "We're having pancakes this morning. We always have pancakes on Saturdays."

"Oh," Spencer said, blinking.

"You can pick breakfast for Sundays, Daddy said. Whatever you like. We both like all kinds of breakfast."

Hotch turned around and placed three plates of pancakes on the bar. He flicked his gaze meaningfully from Spencer to one of the seats. Spencer sat down, feeling as if floating in a dream. The implications of picking a regular weekend breakfast were almost as orgasmic as the night before.

"Welcome to the family," Hotch said, and sat down beside Spencer to eat breakfast.

…

_End._


End file.
